Quand Soudain Le Ciel Est Clair
by The End Of The Beginning
Summary: Title Change! 'Quand soudain le ciel est clair, Leese,' Jackson whispered sweetly. 'It's an old French phrase. When the sky is clear. When it's clear, Lisa. That's when we can stop. It will never, ever be clear. And you can trust me on that.'
1. Prologue

When Suddenly The Sky Is Clear 

**Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye, nor do I own any brand names or the such that may appear in this story. **

**Rating: An M, to be safe, for violence, language, and brief sexual content.**

**Summary: "When suddenly the sky is clear, only then can we stop. The sky will never be clear, Leese, and there will always be that one bit of unfinished business." What would happen if Henrietta Reisert never died? Would things have turned out as fortunately for Lisa as they did?**

It was sunny again.

Meteorologists had been calling the past month one of the most beautiful in Miami's existence—a statement that Jackson Rippner found extremely asinine. It was a well-known fact that there were sporadic periods in the history of the city where, for some reason, no weather had been recorded whatsoever.

It didn't matter, however, what had happened during that specific time frame, because it was still brighter and hotter than Hades. The fact that Jackson was currently stretched out naked in bed in an expensively air-conditioned house did nothing to change his formidable disposition.

He rolled over on his back, wiping a sticky sheen of perspiration from his forehead. He really only had himself to blame for his current mood, so he couldn't curse the heat for its bad timing. After all, there were only so many times that he could do that before it grew to be pathetic, and he was already precariously toeing the boundary line.

Jackson feebly attempted to sit, gritting his teeth at the crawling pain in his gut. Again, another nuance that only he could claim responsibility for.

At that moment, as he roared from the fire ants inhabiting his abdomen, there was nothing more that he wanted in the world than to return to his comfortable facedown position on his bare mattress. But, to his displeasure, his diligent managerial persona was overcoming the lazy half of him that wanted to go back to sleep.

It was way too late in the afternoon for this type of fatigue and lethargy. He chose to blame that on the heat this time. Grunting, he managed to struggle to his feet, the first time he'd stood upright since he'd collapsed in bed two days ago. It was a miracle he was still alive, let alone walking and planning on attending work in an hour and a half.

The idea of Jackson's personal failure had been consistently drilled into him for the past fifteen years by his boss, and even before that, by his father. Of course, his father had always tossed in a 'little shithead' and walked away while his boss preferred to watch Jackson get the crap beaten out of him by two Turkish hit men and say not a word except that key one: failure.

Jackson had failed at his job before, naturally, small little obstructions that typically resulted in a pay cut and harsh reprisal. Of course, this time it was a big, inexcusable fuck-up that Jackson forced himself to take full responsibility for. Apparently, his boss was insistent that he do just that as well.

The murder this time had been one, ironically, that Jackson supported. He typically chose not to get involved in the political debates by which decided whom he would get to disembowel, but for some reason, he had been extremely passionate in the ultimate success of this job. It was a hit scheduled to take place in Bosnia-Herzegovina, on a spit of land where the rich grew richer and the poor were murdered. Jackson had been assigned to murder a man named Ratko Mladic, a military figure whose assistance indirectly led to the mass genocide of other two hundred thousand civilians. It would have been fantastic retribution for those slaughtered if Jackson hadn't trusted in a man named Jedrus Dabrowski.

Jedrus was a retired employee of the union that had acted as a go-between for over a decade. Strictly speaking, withdrawn assassins weren't supposed to associate with current members for confidentiality purposes. However, since Jackson had known Jedrus for nearly twelve years, he'd assumed the man could be trusted. For years after Jedrus's retirement, he'd been Jackson's sole source of weaponry. Typically, Jackson would confide in its' ultimate purpose to Jedrus so that the man could demonstrate its better usage and neat little tricks. As always, Jackson had spilled the beans of the job to Jedrus, but this time, Jedrus had decided to get cute and run to the police. He was obviously dead now, and the Bosnian police had given up on their search for the man under the alias of Horace Szechry, but the mission of course had to be aborted. Jackson was severely punished.

As he limped stiffly to the kitchen, Jackson's eyes drifted outside to the patio where an unused deck chair and a long, high bar war the only adornment. Jackson sighed wistfully, wanting nothing more than a hard shot of gin. The likelihood of alcohol residing in the outdoor bar of his newly-purchased home was slim, but he gave it a shot. After all, what harm could it do? Sure, he'd moved in less than four days ago for the meeting with his boss and to receive his new assignment, but maybe the former owners of this house had been a bit loopy and left a little something behind anyway.

Jackson began to figure out the use of his legs again as he pulled open the sliding door adjacent to the patio. He stretched his arms out there, his icy blue eyes briefly scanning the lush landscape dotted with palm trees and persimmon, drifting finally to the rundown but nevertheless large swimming pool. It certainly was a beautiful area and a lovely house, but he hadn't really had the opportunity to enjoy either of them yet. And he probably never would, if he got the assignment he was hoping for. If all went well, he'd be cooling his heels in Moscow noon tomorrow.

The heat heightened his thirst and reminded him of his original quest. He veered right to the bar and stepped up to peer in the shelving behind it. To his surprise, not only were a few cracked shot glasses still shoved hastily into the corner of the cupboard, but also a tiny but brimming bottle of Plymouth as well. He hungrily yanked it out, using his bruised thumb to scrape the thick coat of dust from the surface. Not bothering with the glasses at all, Jackson anxiously ripped the cap from the bottle and downed half of it in one gulp.

It burned as it rattled down his dry throat, making Jackson question the wisdom of drinking half a bottle of gin after spending the last two days vomiting blood into a bucket by his bed. A mild state of calm rushed his brain suddenly, and Jackson grinned. Even if he did get sick again, at least he wouldn't feel it this time. He pulled the deck chair in front of the pool and sat on the edge of it, carefully dipping his toes into the warm water as he sipped what remained of his find more sparingly.

Even if Moscow didn't work out, Jackson decided with a smirk as he downed the rest of the gin, this kind of lifestyle wouldn't be hard to get used to.

It wouldn't be hard to get used to at all.

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Author's Note: Thanks for reading, because obviously if you're reading this little section right here, you managed to stay awake for that whole expository snapshot of Jackson Rippner's life. Please review, because you have to have an opinion by now.

My second order of business is to find a beta. I am in desperate need and if any readers are interested, please let me know via PM or review. Thank you so much in advance!


	2. One

Author's Note: So I'm posting this next one unedited—I did the best I could with MS Spell Check and my own eyes, but please forgive any errors I may have made. I was too impatient to wait a few more days to post it after I'd written it, and I figured that you guys had waited long enough.

So a bit of exposition on this chapter and the last—thought I'd put out the fact that I certainly did my research on this piece and Jackson's house and Lisa's condo do, actually, exist. They're pretty nice, I just looked up pieces of real estate. Second piece of background info is about Lisa's cat, Asa. I didn't make that up, it's actually the name of a famous American botanist from the mid-1800s, and I thought it was pretty. It means 'starting life at dawn' or 'the healer'. I found it suitable for Lisa to have a 'healing' cat after everything she went through in the infamous Parking Lot Incident.

Alrighty, since I know you guys are probably ready to wring my neck for all these boring little background details, I will, finally, give you Chapter Two of When The Sky Is Suddenly Clear.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She tried to tell herself that she didn't need it. She needed it like she needed a hole in the head. There was absolutely _no need whatsoever_ for her to keep her radio blasting NPR late into the night.

Lisa sat straight up in bed, rolling from her sweat-stained, tangled sheets, and stretched her tired arm out for the digital clock she kept by her bedside.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she grunted quietly, feeling blessed that her father wasn't around to hear. Not that he could have done anything—Lisa was, after all, a grown woman of twenty-eight years old, but she still felt odd swearing in front of her parents.

She contemplated for a few moments whether there was something physically wrong with her. Most people battled insomnia all night—for her it was only at three in the morning. And why? She had no clue. Nothing notable had ever happened to her at that time, nothing traumatizing afflicted her memories at that particular hour. Actually, the only troubling event that had ever happened to her had taken place at exactly one fifty one in the afternoon, and even her shrink said that she was moving on quite nicely from that ordeal.

Lisa sighed as she began to acquiesce to her temptation, "Just this once," and reached for the radio. She stopped as the ever-present proud and conscientious hard-worker she was reminded her not to allow enticement to take hold. After all, this was as much of an addiction to her as smoking or gambling were to any other person—it wasn't good for her health, and she really ought to stop.

NPR didn't exactly have an immediate negative effect on her well-being. After all, it coaxed her into a sleep, light albeit deep enough to carry her to dawn without much difficulty. The only problem was that it was oftentimes too light to count as restful anymore, as the sound waves bouncing from the speakers tended to permeate just enough to keep her semi-alert. It was getting too hard to deny the dark circles encompassing her eyes anymore and time to start taking a proactive role in her health.

If she wasn't so medicine-wary she'd take a leaf out of her mother's book and get a prescription to Xanax or even snag some Nyquil to help her get to sleep, but Lisa had always been repulsed by the idea of relying on chemicals. That was out of the question, and since she'd finally decided to rule out her radio, Lisa chose to submit to insomnia and crawled sleepily from her bed.

She surveyed the crumpled mess she'd left behind with distaste before scooping up the sheets and dumping them into the GE in the corner of the living room. Lisa flipped the switch and leaned against it, shutting her eyes for a moment as it whirred to life. She momentarily wished she was at home again, her early morning loneliness getting the better of her.

Lisa wandered around for a few moments, making sure the door was locked and the blinds securely fastened. She flicked on all of the lights in the condominium, fully surrendering to the fact that sleep would not come again that night. As usual, she set down a game plan for the day. It was too early to go to work or even the gym yet, so she might as well get some food into her and try to relax before the hectic routines of the Lux Atlantic Resort demanded her full attention.

There was little that was edible in the fridge, a direct result of Lisa's paranoia of grocery stores and the procrastination of shopping until it was absolutely necessary. She sighed with the realization that, if she wanted to remain alive, she would have to make a trip very soon. Like later that night.

Since there was so little choice, Lisa took no time in setting a carton of eggs, a small wedge of cheddar cheese, and a nearly empty container of milk on her porcelain counter top. She also seized a sliver of butter that blessedly remained and tossed it in a frying pan, turning on the stove. After she cracked the eggs and mixed them with the milk and cheese, she allowed them to cook slowly on the stove as she meandered to the television in the adjoining living room.

As something crashed from inside her bedroom, Lisa's first reaction was to jump and her next to pull her sweatshirt down to cover her exposed skin. She tightly squeezed the spatula in her hand and closed her eyes, calming herself with the realization that the only door inside the apartment was right behind her. She took a deep breath and tensely found her way back into her bedroom.

Her eyes nervously surveyed the small area, finally coming to rest on a pair of familiar wide brown pupils. Lisa forced a laugh at her own suspicion and then shook her head as she saw the source of the commotion.

"Asa, I tell you, you are the father of all idiots," Lisa grumbled, scooping up the Maine Coon and setting him gently on her stripped mattress, then moving for her broom. Luckily, the cat had managed to knock over a cheap dollar store vase rather than the priceless family heirloom that sat next to it. However, it still created a mess on an Oriental rug that Lisa would rather not be cleaning up at three o'clock in the morning. She sighed and began to sweep up the shards, still attempting to regulate her heartbeat.

It was only when she had put the broom away and was chastising Asa on his misbehavior when she smelled acridly burning eggs. Lisa snatched the spatula from where she'd left it on her bed and darted for the kitchen.

Five minutes later, she'd managed to salvage the crispy albeit edible nonetheless eggs and slid them onto a plastic plate along with a few misshapen pieces of toast. She bypassed the dining table that was three feet away and instead made a beeline for the living room, flopping down on the couch in front of the television.

Lisa flicked idly through the channels as she shoveled her breakfast into her mouth. She was utterly repulsed that she paid twenty-nine ninety-five for this crappy selection. Basically, because of the early hour, she had the wonderful selection of paid programming, porn, or some redneck comedy show. How lovely. Setting her plate on a high shelf so that Asa couldn't reach it, she stooped to a cupboard beneath the entertainment center and pulled it open.

Lisa Reisert had never been one to dwell much on pop culture, but the one pleasure she did indulge in was classic movies. She owned the best of the best, everything from Audrey Hepburn to The Godfather to Ghostbusters. Hundreds were perfectly arranged in the maple cabinet, starting with 13 Rue Madeleine and ending with Zulu. Her fingers grazed the titles for a moment before she settled on Where Love Has Gone and slid the thin disk into her DVD player.

Lisa stretched out on the couch as the opening credits began and she finished her breakfast, sliding the plate to the floor. Asa soon thumped over, licking the remnants of the meal from the plastic before crawling onto the couch to curl up, purring, next to Lisa. She smiled at him and stroked his warm, pulsating coat as Susan Hayward made her grand appearance. The smile of complacence slowly turned to one of sadness as the film progressed and Lisa became more and more aware of her pathetic existence.

She was sitting alone in her fourteenth-floor North Bay Village home at four in the morning watching a movie because she simply had nothing better to do. Any other woman of her age would be sleeping restfully in bed—most likely with a supportive man next to her—or out hitting the Miami clubbing scene. What was wrong with her life? She had few friends—several coworkers and her family were the only people who ever spoke to her—and a job that was an insult to the Masters in Business that had taken so long to achieve. Lisa suppressed the urge to outright sob, but felt a fat tear roll down her cheek despite her best efforts to stop it.

She wanted a life like in the movies. She wanted romance, happiness, excitement—anything to contradict the dull, dismal, lonely cliff that she was making a fast fall down. If money could buy that sort of lifestyle, Lisa would pay a fortune. If there were something she could do to earn that sort of satisfying life, well, then, she would work harder than ever. But the thing that chewed at her the most, that was the only roadblock in her success, was that she _had no idea how to achieve it._ If only the perfect life could just come merrily waltzing through her door, right now, with a loud announcement of its reality.

Lisa closed her eyes, drifting back off into the couch fabric as she heard Bette Davis make an otherwise pointless statement from the television screen. As she quietly continued to cry, she wasn't aware of the fact that she was finally going back to sleep, or that she had to leave for work in three hours. All she was aware of was herself, her tears, and the weak excuse for a life that she had once called normal.


	3. Two

Author's Note: I apologize for the long wait! My first excuse is that I've been extremely busy with typical senioritis, and the second is that I've had major writer's block. Thanks to all you reviewers who helped me get back on track, and also a big thanks to Pukkina for helping with the trailer video, which is now officially up on Photobucket, and also for proofreading for errors. The link for the video is in my profile if you're interested.

Anyway, here is the next chapter, please read, enjoy, and review!

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Lisa awoke with a start, experiencing the sudden and strange sensation that she was lying face down in the sandy bottom of a lake. When the bright light eagerly pushing its way past her eyelids finally forced her into full consciousness, she forced her weary eyes open and looked around.

For some foreign reason, she was sprawled out on her living room carpet, her nose pressed against the scratchy fabric. The watery impression she'd been experiencing had evidently been caused by the sticky sweat that drenched her from head to toe, a direct result of the sunlight pouring into her spacious living room. She flopped onto her back and yawned, trying to gather her senses and figure out why, exactly, she was no longer in her bed. As Asa flexed his claws on the floor nearby and lazily padded to where Lisa rested, rubbing his head cloyingly against her waist, the incidents of just a few hours ago came rushing back. She shot up from her uncomfortable position and wobbled unsteadily to her feet, slapping a hand to her head as she searched frantically for a clock.

When her nervous eyes finally discovered the time, she first moaned, and then swore loudly. "_Shit!"_

It was half past seven, meaning that she had five minutes to somehow shower, dress, and do something with her hair if she wanted to have a chance at making it to work on time. Lisa didn't bother working out the details in her head before darting for the shower. As she hastily yanked her clothes over her head, she realized with an anxious jolt that she didn't have time even for a shower, and so, that determined, she wrenched the faucet on the sink to an operating position and stuck her head beneath it. It occurred to her a moment later that she hadn't bothered to test the temperature before placing her trust in the plumbing as a waterfall of frigid tap water came pouring down on her unsuspecting scalp. Lisa shrieked and quickly soaked her hair, then withdrew her head and rapidly towel-dried.

Within four minutes, Lisa was dressed in her mandatory Lux Atlantic white dress (for once, she was grateful for the existence of the plain, shapeless thing) and had her sodden, curly hair thrown up into a hasty bun on the top of her head. She splashed on some quick makeup, only vaguely aware of the fact that it looked like crap, and pulled on her stilettos before grabbing her purse and running out the door.

Her neighbor, a lonely, arthritic old woman named Agatha Curium, smiled slowly at Lisa and gestured happily with the butt of her cane as Lisa hurriedly fumbled to lock her apartment door behind her. "Hello, dear," she squeaked. "Off to work?"

"Yes, Mrs. Curium, I'm actually--"

"Lisa, dear, do you think you could help me for a brief moment? I hate to be a bother, but that darned mailman has gone and jammed my postal box again. The arthritis is acting up again and my fingers aren't much good for anything."

Lisa groaned inwardly, knowing that the last thing she needed was to be stuck forcing a crowbar to open Agatha's mailbox, but knowing she could never make herself refuse, forced a cheesy grin and nodded. "Sure, Mrs. Curium."

She darted to the postal box nearby, feeling the old woman's eyes on her the whole time, and tightly gripped the edge of the box, yanking until finally the stubborn thing fell open. Lisa felt her fingernail snap painfully off and fall to the ground accompanied by a few pieces of mail from the box. Suppressing the urge to curse, she instinctively stuck her bleeding thumb into her mouth and stepped aside so that Agatha could gather her mail.

"Oh, dear, what would I do without you?" Agatha said, initially oblivious to the fact that Lisa was grimacing. Then, finally noticing that Lisa was sucking her thumb, gasped, "Oh, Lisa, sweetheart, are you alright? Oh, my, can I get you anything for that? Here, let me just go get my alcohol and some gauze--"

"No, Mrs. Curium, thanks, but I'm fine," Lisa said anxiously. "I have some Band Aids in the car, I just really need to be going."

"Oh, okay, then," the woman said, warily eyeing Lisa's bleeding finger. "Just make sure you wrap that up nice, now."

Lisa nodded before racing to the stairs, deciding to skip the elevator altogether. The slow moving contraption would only slow her down further, and Lisa wasn't keen on wasting any more time than she already had.

Despite her worst fears, Lisa found her Toyota Corolla in perfect working order, the first thing that turned out decently all day. And, ironically, she must have missed the early-morning Miami rush on her late fifteen-minute commute. She was ten minutes behind schedule as she coasted into the Lux Atlantic staff parking lot, casting a depressed glance at the Starbucks that sat forlornly down the street. No caramel lattes for her today—just whatever lukewarm, bitter decaffeinated garbage was left over in the staff room by the time she got there. Which, considering her luck, probably wouldn't be until late that night.

As she gathered up her purse and laptop bag from the seat beside her, Lisa muttered, to nobody in particular, "When I asked for a change, I meant for the better "

Every employee head in the lobby snapped up as Lisa entered with an exasperated sigh. Cynthia Martin, an overeager new hire that Lisa had selected herself, darted over, robotically taking Lisa's laptop bag from her hands.

"Cynthia, you're not my assistant," Lisa said crossly. "You're the concierge. Seriously, I don't need you waiting on me hand and foot."

Cynthia ignored her, briskly trotting behind the desk and positioning the bag on the tiled floor. "Awfully late today, aren't you? Is everything okay?"

"I was only late by ten minutes," Lisa frowned, checking her watch, which avowed her claim.

Cynthia shook her head and nodded at the clock. "Try an _hour_ and ten minutes late."  
Lisa looked perplexedly around at several of the numerous clocks in the lobby, slapping her head as she realized that the answer to this complicated conundrum was her own blunder. "Daylight Savings Time! I completely forgot."

Cynthia smiled shyly and sipped her Dasani before turning to check in several waiting customers. When she was finished, she moved to the computer to record their arrival. Without looking up, she asked Lisa, "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

Fully aware that the coffee would most likely have the consistency and flavor of mud, Lisa agreed, fervent for even a small dosage of caffeine. "That would be great, thanks. Didn't have time for my Starbucks today, I over--"

"—overslept," Cynthia interrupted knowingly, concluding her computer work and leaning casually on the desk to face her superior. "Yeah, I know."

"But how?" Lisa questioned vacantly, taken aback.

Cynthia stepped closer, embarrassedly wrinkling her nose and crossing her arms over her chest to mutter, "No offense, Leese, but you kind of smell."

Lisa grunted. "Thanks."

"Seriously. And you're bleeding!" Cynthia noted with a petite squeak, gesturing to Lisa's hand. Lisa looked down, suddenly remembering that she'd forgotten to cover the stupid thing.

"Oh, yeah. A mailbox thing…this morning." Lisa's face flushed with remembrance of the obnoxious contrivance.

"Go home."

"What?"

"You heard me," Cynthia answered with a shrug. "I can hold the fort down for an hour or two. Go home, take a shower, get your coffee. You deserve that much."

"No, Cynthia, thank you," Lisa interrupted nobly. "I'm not going to leave work."

"Leese, let me put it another way," Cynthia said patiently. "You're grossing out the customers, not to mention myself, both with the blood and the stench. It would not be selfish of you to leave. Actually, you'd be doing us all a favor."

"I think our boss would argue otherwise," Lisa pointed out.

"So don't tell him," Cynthia replied nonchalantly. "He's not here. If he drops by, I'll just tell him you stepped out for a while…to do errands."

"I couldn't ask you to lie for me," Lisa sighed, already guilty. It was totally against every moral she possessed, yet the idea was so irresistibly tempting.

"You don't need to," Cynthia said with a determined grin. "I'm offering."

Ten minutes later, Cynthia finally managed to guilt trip/bribe/threaten Lisa into leaving, but only with Lisa's fierce declaration that she would be gone 'only a minute'.

Her first stop was the Starbucks down the street, where the crowd was surprisingly thin. A handsome businessman sat engrossed in his work in the corner, while a diminutive senior citizen sat at a rickety table, his eyes squinting feebly at an outdated issue of Time. Lisa hightailed it to the counter, quickly ordering a large cappuccino.

"Whipped cream?"

"Yes," Lisa answered instantly, and then, on sudden inspiration, "Lots."

The clerk laughed and moved to fill the order. He returned moments later, the drink in hand. Lisa also chose a croissant and paid, then turned to leave. As she twisted on her heel, she ran head-on into a man.

He hadn't been there before. Lisa gasped audibly as her drink slowly flew to the man's suited chest and tumbled a dark, sticky path to his shoes. The cup fell with a clatter, and Lisa instantly lunged for a stack of paper napkins, shoving them at the man.

"I am so, so sorry!" she cried, her cheeks burning. "Really, I will pay for dry-cleaning, or a new suit, whatever you--"

The man grabbed Lisa's hands and forced them to stop in their movement for more napkins. He met her eyes and then, and only then, did Lisa truly freeze.

His eyes were the textbook definition of blue. They were sparkling, large, and set beneath heavy lids above an astonishingly defined set of cheekbones. He smiled broadly, displaying a crooked albeit friendly smile.

"Really, miss," he said laughingly. "It's fine. I didn't really like this outfit anyway."

"No, no," Lisa said nervously, digging out her wallet. "Please, let me pay--"

"If you give me money, I'm giving it right back and buying you a new drink," the man argued lightly. Lisa surrendered, opening her mouth to apologize again as the man dabbed his jacket. He cut her off, adding, "Same goes for if you apologize again. It was just my fault as it was your own."

Lisa took a deep breath. "No, it was my fault. It's one of those days for me, actually."

"One of the days where the only thing that goes right is God's smite against you?" the man chuckled darkly. "Yes, I'm quite familiar with those days. They've actually been strung together lately to form my life."

Lisa smiled, enjoying this man's thought pattern. She fidgeted dangerously on her aching feet, worried and stunned that she was speaking cordially to a man without trembling in fear for the first time in two years. "Tell me about it. Life has been just a series of adverse events since--" She trailed off, uncomfortable with where she was taking this. "—since my parents got divorced."

The man's eyes reflected sincere sympathy. "I feel terrible for you. It must be horrible, as a child, to have the perfect familial dream shattered like that."

"Well, I wasn't actually a child," Lisa replied shamefully. "It was actually only a few years ago."

"Oh, so you were one of the lucky ones, then," the man sighed wistfully. "My parents died when I was ten. But you know, in a way it was a blessing in disguise, because when you're that young, you don't really realize what's happening until you're older."

Lisa gasped at his misfortune and shook her head. "That's so horrible! I am so sorry."

He shrugged. "Life goes on. Right?"

"Right."

"Just like," he said, pinching the fabric of his soiled jacket between his fingers. "Today will go on, despite the fact that I have…what is this, cappuccino?…all over my jacket." He peeled it off and slung it over his arm. "Well, miss…"

"Lisa," Lisa said politely. "Lisa Reisert."

"Miss Reisert," he finished. "I'm afraid I must be going, but I'd love to talk to you again, if that's alright. It would be nice to hear about other people you've splattered with various caffeinated beverages."

Lisa laughed genially. "You're the first, Mr…"

"Jackson," he replied, gathering his things from the counter and beginning to stroll away. He grinned at her one more time before turning to leave. "Jackson Rippner. See you later, Lisa."


	4. Three

1Jackson waited until Lisa had left the Starbucks and was safely seated inside her car before wiping the cheesy grin off his face and cursing to himself. He peeled his stained and saturated jacket from his body and scooped his bag up from the floor, tossing it over his shoulder as he stormed from the establishment.

The sun outdoors was bright and stung his sensitive eyes as he squinted down the street. Lisa's car took off from the curb about a yard ahead and sped up as it rounded the corner, a cloud of dust rising from the tires. Jackson shook his head and tried not to rip his suit jacket apart in his hands. Instead, he balled the thing up and shoved it in his bag, and just let his hands quiver angrily, thinking, _Stupid woman. Stupid, inconsiderate, insipid woman._

While he was naturally irate at the encounter–he had been hoping to just flirt shamelessly with her, not get drenched with a sticky feminine beverage–he had to admit that he found her intriguing. She was a beautiful woman. He especially loved her quirky red mess of air and distracted posture. Had she not been a target, he most likely would have pursued for a quick fuck or two. But he refused to mix work and pleasure, and it had been so long since he'd last had sex that he probably wouldn't remember what to do, anyway. He was busy setting the groundwork for a successful career and hadn't been with a woman since he was twenty-three.

Jackson raked his fingers through his hair as he unlocked his car, feeling exhausted. It wasn't even noon yet and the heat was taking a toll on him. He really did hate the heat and he was in no physical condition to tolerate it. He looked forward to the afternoon, which would be spent in Lisa's apartment searching for information. Hopefully it would be air-conditioned.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he dug it out, flipping it open as he pulled onto the bustling Miami side street. "Rippner."

"Yes sir, it's Roberts," a close associate said. Jackson cleared his throat and took a left.

"Talk to me. Did you get your hands on Keefe's schedule?"

"Yes, but it's tentative," Roberts responded, and Jackson heard a rustling of papers. "He'll definitely be wrapping up his southern tour in Miami and we have a source that has confirmed he will be staying at the Lux Atlantic, in suite 3825."

Jackson grunted in thought. "Odd numbered suites face the city, don't they? That won't work when we bring in the Russians."

"The Russians?" Roberts questioned. "What have they got to do with it?"

"Stick to your job," Jackson snapped irritably, speeding up to merge with traffic. "And I'll stick to mine, which happens to be paying you and organizing every other incompetent man beneath me. Do what I tell you and I'll keep paying for your cheap Japanese whores, got that?"

Roberts hesitated. "Understood, sir."

"Now," Jackson continued after righting Roberts' mistake. "I need you to continue with your work on the Keefe file. Gather as much information as you possibly can; the hit will be next Thursday. I expect to know every tiny detail about his stay in Miami. I want to know when he eats, breathes and shits. Everything. Understood? Call me with a daily report and email if necessary, but do not under _any_ circumstances fax anything to my address. I don't want any hard copies for this particular job. Do you need me to explain why?"

Roberts answered all too quickly to his boss's scathing inquiry. "Of course not, sir. Anything else?"

"No. Call me at eight tomorrow morning unless you catch a big fish."

They hung up and, with perfect timing, pulled into Lisa's driveway. Her car was not in the driveway. Nodding happily, Jackson drove behind her apartment complex and parked beneath a draping willow tree, a spot in which he would be fairly concealed.

He locked it and looked around for any passerby before kicking up several clods of mud onto his front and rear license plates. He quickly grabbed a duffel bag from his backseat and jogged to the back entrance of the building.

The security in Lisa's complex wasn't the best. There was no buzz-up required at the particular entrance he chose, and her door cracked open with just a few short seconds of picking. He was mildly disgusted at her naivete. Didn't she know that there were thousands of men out there just like him who would be dying to break into her apartment?

Jackson set to work in her apartment, surprised at the size for just one occupant. It had two bedrooms, one that she seemed to be using as her home office, as well as a massive two-sink bathroom, full kitchen and living room.

He wired her kitchen and living room first, installing microphones and cameras in both. He was surprised at his agility in doing so, completing the first tasks in less than ten minutes. Moving onto the bedroom and bathroom, he briefly considered doing the same. He decided against cameras, wanting to maintain some semblance of mystery. He didn't need to see her undress every night. She was an attractive woman after all, but it would be weird if he found her with another man one night. He had no particular desire to watch that.

Since the whole ordeal had taken Jackson less than half an hour, much less time than he'd anticipated, he decided to linger a bit longer and collect what information he could. Pushing his boundaries, he stepped into her cavernous walk-in closet, examining the hanging articles.

She dressed for her job, that much was clear. Indiscrete, modest blouses, skirts and pantsuits filled an entire wall, with sets of high heels and flats lined up neatly beneath. On the opposite side of the room was a much slimmer selection of her casual clothing. A set of drawers must have contained her pajamas and underwear, and Jackson left those alone. He stepped back into her bedroom, looking around as sunlight filtered in through a crack in the beige curtains.

A cat peeked out from the door to the bathroom and Jackson jumped. It was a fat, furry little thing, and he glared at it. He hated cats and any other domestic creature. They were too symbolic of everything he'd avoided in his life.

"Get out of here, you little bastard," Jackson hissed. He jerked his foot out at it, and it snarled. "Get. Shoo!"

_Shoo,_ he remarked to himself as it scattered. _I just used the word shoo. I'm getting old, aren't I?_

Her room was remarkably uncluttered, even by Jackson's standards. He was almost compulsively clean and in his past experiences with women, he'd noticed that all of them had tendencies towards fengshui and stacks of womanly magazines. In Lisa's entire apartment, however, he hadn't seen a single scented candle or _Cosmo._ He honestly felt that it could have easily been a man's apartment just as easily.

He wondered why her own apartment seemed so impersonal. He'd seen several photographs, but none had contained a man her own age. He would have to study up in the next few days on her family and relationship history.

As Jackson was contemplating this, he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock. Swearing under his breath, he quickly peered out the window and, sure enough, Lisa's cute Toyota Corolla was sitting in front of the building. Without further hesitation, he ran into the walk-in closet and slammed the door shut, clicking off the lights before he hid behind a rack of clothing.

Jackson soon heard clacking footsteps on the other side of the door, followed by a pause and a heavy sigh. He held his breath as the closet door opened. _Fuck. Don't come in here. That would screw me royally. What the hell was I thinking? Why the hell is she BACK here?_

He heard her voice as the closet door slammed shut, and he felt a brief moment of terror. _Is she talking to me? Why isn't she more surprised?_

"What am I _doing?"_ Lisa was muttering to herself. "I don't need to change clothes. Shower, Lisa. Take a shower, fix your hair, and then go back to work. Jesus Christ, you're losing your mind."

_Yes, you are, sweetheart,_ he thought. _You're talking to yourself. That's fucked up._

Her footsteps dropped off as she headed into the bathroom. In moments, he heard the tinny sound of falling water as she started her shower. He waited for another thirty seconds before bolting out of the closet and her bedroom as quickly and silently as possible.

Jackson sloppily made his way out to the car, chiding himself the whole way. _Idiotic, Jack,_ he scolded. _That was close. You're not going to make it out of this assignment alive if you don't start being more careful. _He started the car and sped away, wondering when, exactly, he'd become so careless.


	5. Four

**Author's Note**: **So I haven't updated since….July. I apologize for being a pathetic writer. Unfortunately college (and the real world) attacked me in the fall, and I've been insanely busy ever since. Only recently have I gotten back into the rhythm of writing. Here's another chapter, please review, if there are any of you left reading. I hope to have another one soon. **

* * *

Lisa returned home from work that night feeling refreshed. Her job had a tendency to erase her mind of the past because she was forced by the stress of the day to focus only on the present. She almost relished the strain of her work, in fact.

She dropped her keys on the countertop and plucked an apple from the basket. She clicked on her Keurig to allow it to warm up. Walking to her bedroom, she felt somewhat disoriented. Something felt off in her house. Ever since the rape, her senses had been heightened to inhuman proportions. She sniffed the air. A foreign smell lingered. It wasn't smoke or propane, thank God--but it wasn't right.

_Cologne?_ Lisa thought to herself, her eyebrows furrowing. That didn't make sense. The muscles in her body tensed as she turned in a complete circle to survey her bedroom. Nothing looked out of place, but her window was slightly cracked. She hesitated before remembering that she'd left it that way. Both her bathroom and closet doors were open, and after peeking in to find nothing out of the ordinary, she sighed.

_Paranoid, Leese,_ she chided herself. _Your window is open. The smell could have come from anywhere._ Asa meowed at her, winding around her ankles. She lifted him to her chest, kissing his head. He yowled and strained to be free of her grasp.

"No love today, buddy?" she laughed and set him on the floor. "Fine. I'll feed you later."

Lisa walked into her closet, flicking on the light. She kicked off her high heels and stood with her hands on her hips, surveying her options. It was too early to put on pajamas. She grabbed a baggy sweatshirt, an old one, riddled with holes of various origins, and a loose-fitting pair of leggings.

She still felt funny as she dressed in the dark of her bedroom and headed back to the kitchen. Yet her discomfort was unfounded. Clearly nobody had been here, and she always made sure to lock the door behind her when she got home. She forced herself to shake off her fears, but closed her window anyway. She poured a hot cup of coffee and settled onto her couch, clicking aimlessly through the channels.

Lisa's phone rang a while later, snapping her out of her news-induced haze. She checked the caller ID and lifted it out of the cradle. "Hey, Dad."

"Hi, sweetie. How was work today?" she smiled at her father's gruff, concerned voice. He was always concerned. Even before the rape, something as little as a paper cut could push him into several stages of worrying. It didn't help that she was the only person he had to demonstrate this nervous energy on.

"Not bad," Lisa responded, deciding not to mention her tardiness and series of misfortunes. "Just another day. How are you doing?"

She could hear him shrug, which made her smile. "I've actually been doing really well, Leese. I'm finally starting to find a sense of myself after your mother left…been getting into a lot of new stuff. Golfing, cooking--"

"Cooking!" Lisa exclaimed, laughing. "No way. You're going to have to prove this one to me."

He chuckled. "I would, if you'd come visit me once in a while. I haven't seen you in three weeks, honey, and you live five miles away."

Lisa sank guiltily back into the couch. "I know, Dad, and I'm really sorry…work has just been so crazy, I can't have a minute's rest. It seems that all we have are celebrities lately. We had the governor last week, and then in two Wednesdays Charles Keefe and his family are staying for a night. I'm the manager, so I have to be there for them all. I just can't trust anyone enough to delegate a little."

"You're going to tire yourself out," he scolded. "Come have dinner with me, Tuesday night? Please, baby?"

She halfheartedly agreed, reluctant because she knew she'd be overwhelmed with preparations for the Keefe visit. "Anyway, Dad. Have you talked to Mom?"

"I actually spoke to her last night. She's been trying to get a hold of you, you know. She said she tried calling five times within the last week, but they all went straight to voicemail."

"Why does she need to talk to me so urgently?" Lisa muttered, annoyed. She had little respect for her mother outside of what was absolutely required. The woman had turned on her and her father and just flitted off to Texas without a care in the world. "She could email me or something. I'd get back to her."

"It's not the same, Leese," he replied after a pause. "Your grandmother's pretty ill. She wants to know if you could go visit her sometime next week."

"I really can't, Dad," Lisa snapped. "I have so much work to do, and it's not like a plane ticket to Texas comes cheap. I will when I have a vacation."

"When _was_ your last vacation, Leese?"

She paused. She didn't remember. Stumbling over her words, she replied, "Whatever. If she calls you again, tell her I'll get to her when I can."

"You know, your mother and I aren't items to be checked off on your To-Do list," her father answered quietly, not angry, but sad. "I really wish you'd leave that damn hotel once in a while."

Lisa fell silent. He was being ridiculous, but she didn't want to fight with him. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Listen, can I call you tomorrow? I'm actually right in the middle of something."

"Sure, sweetheart. I love you."

She hung up after saying goodbye and sat sullenly on her couch. _Your mother and I aren't items to be checked off on your To-Do List._ She knew that. Didn't she?

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

On a Monday morning two weeks later, Jackson watched as Lisa slipped into her car and headed for work. He cracked his window to let in some breeze. He was relieved that she had finally left. That meant that it was time for a break.

Lisa rarely left her house, which was both good and bad for Jackson. It was good in that he could survey her almost constantly, except for when she was at work. He sometimes followed her there, but even that was risky. He needed to keep a low profile. It was helpful that she stayed home so often because he was able to collect a wealth of information without risking being caught. It was bad in that he was never able to rest.

She was a thoroughly boring person, albeit an attractive boring person. In a way, it was another of her benefits. There was little about her that was not transparent. He saw that she was twenty-seven years old, a single child, graduate of the University of Miami with a degree in Hospitality and a daddy's girl. She never spoke to her mother, but there were pictures of her father all around the house. She had no boyfriend or, really, any friends to speak of. She would occasionally have coffee with Cynthia Wilkins, a woman who worked with her at the hotel, but that was the extent of her socialization.

Lisa was soft-spoken, for the most part, and kept to herself. She had a smile plastered on her face all day at work, but never smiled at home unless, of course, her cat did something humorous. She was obsessed with the damn cat. At home, he was the only person she spoke to.

Jackson wondered why no men ever pursued her, or why she never seemed to have any interest in men. He'd been watching her only for a matter of weeks but it was long enough to see that Lisa Reisert was a complete loser.

It would make the job that much easier. She had been awkward in the Starbucks, a little bit like a gawky teenager experiencing her first encounter with a boy. He smiled at that. No, this one would be easy to break. There was a good chance that she'd be so awestruck that a man was speaking to her that she'd do whatever he said out of sudden adoration anyway.

She would be home in ten hours. He stretched and started the car. He was in desperate need of a nap and hot shower before he returned. Only twenty-four more hours of this bullshit, he told himself. Then the real work would begin.


	6. Five

**Author's Note: How was THAT for a quick update? I wasn't sure if I'd have time to write this, but I did. Enjoy and please review. :/**

* * *

Lisa rolled down the car window, trying to let in some air as sweat poured down her face. It was Tuesday morning, and her dad was taking forever to answer the phone. When he finally answered, she had almost forgotten why she had called him.

"Dad," she spoke sweetly. "I'm sorry, but I can't make it to dinner tonight."

There was a belated silence. "Work."

Biting her lip, she hesitated. "Well, no…not exactly." _Liar_.

Joe Reisert snorted. She could tell he was exasperated and disappointed in her. "Really? Then what, Leese? Maybe you plan on doing what I'll do now--eat the lasagna I made for us, continue to stress out about the expensive wallet I lost two weeks ago, watch the Comedy Marathon and fall asleep in my ratty old armchair--_again._"

"Dad--"

"What could it _be_, hm? Why won't you spend time with me? Is there a guy? Have you finally found someone?"

Lisa cringed. Was her own father really mocking her for her lack of social activity? Was she that bad? The lie that spilled from her lips was automatic. "As a matter of fact, Dad, yeah, there is a guy. I told him we'd go out tonight."

Her father was silent. Lisa wanted to scream. Why had she just told him that? It didn't relieve her of her situation and it certainly did not fix things for her future. All it did was temporarily allow her to maintain her pride. "A guy? Who?"

"Somebody…somebody from work," she stammered. "Well, not really, actually…I met him_ during_ work, at Starbucks, you see…" _The one guy you have a conversation with, you've suddenly decided to fictionally date. Nice, Lisa._

"Huh," Joe answered, bemused but still hurt. "Well, fine, then. Can you come sometime? Maybe this weekend?"

Lisa exhaled slowly. "I don't know, Dad. I'll try. Ok? I'll try."

He hung up then, without saying goodbye. Lisa stared at the phone and gingerly put it in her purse. What a healthy start to the day.

The air was completely still outside, and the heat bore down on the parking lot like she was in a sauna. It was difficult to breathe, so she quickened her pace to enter the Lux Atlantic. She had never been more grateful for the high-tech, energy-efficient air conditioning system than she was today. She rolled up the sleeves of her button down white blouse as she approached the front desk.

Cynthia smiled at her from behind the computer. "You're getting so good at this punctuality thing, Leese."

"I was late _once_, Cynthia, and you hold it over my head," Lisa replied, but smiled. She joined her behind the desk and dropped her purse beneath the counter. "Anything new from last night?"

Cynthia yawned in response, showing Lisa her tonsils. "No. Another long, painful night. I've never been more happy to get out of here. You sure you don't need me today?"

"It'll be fine, just be back by nine so I can leave," Lisa answered, with a sudden thought. "Did Keefe's rep call last night, by any chance?"

"Oh, shit, yeah!" Cynthia skipped back behind the desk, retrieving a small pad of paper. On it she'd scrawled a message from the representative. "So he wants his usual box of cigars, the Cristal on ice, and--oh! Something different this time. Chocolate covered strawberries and a bottle of wine."

Lisa grinned. "Anniversary?"

"Looks like it. Thank God they have those Secret Service morons to look after the kids for a while," Cynthia giggled. Lisa frowned at her.

"Just make sure you don't say that anywhere near them," she ordered. "Okay, Cynth, go get some rest. Just make sure you're back here no later than nine. I'm sorry to work you so hard, but you know, I'll be here at two o'clock tomorrow morning myself. I plan to go home after work, take a quick nap and shower, eat a sandwich and come back. It'll be great."

Cynthia shook her head. "I don't know how you do it. You might want to consider sleeping here tonight, though."

"Why's that?"

"There's supposed to be a big storm coming in," the redhead gestured outside at the clouds in the distance. Lisa peered out at the windless parking lot. "They've already issued a hurricane watch."

Lisa sighed. "They would. It'll be fine. Don't worry about it. I'm a good driver. See you, Cynthia."

Cynthia left, and Lisa turned to her work, picking up the phone as it jangled beside her. Room 4359 needed fresh towels. She called housekeeping. Of course.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

Later that afternoon, Lisa called over a concierge, Nathaniel, and asked him to hold down the fort while she grabbed a late lunch. It was around four, later than she usually ate, but the day had been hectic and not allowed her a reprieve. He agreed and she darted across the street to Starbucks. All she wanted was a parfait and grande latte.

It was virtually empty, but several people walked in behind her. She paid for her lunch and grabbed a newspaper, intending to bring the food back to the hotel. She could eat while she was working. As she turned away from the register, a voice called her back.

"Lisa?"

She turned to see the blue-eyed business man handing a ten-dollar bill to the cashier but looking her way. _Fuck_, she thought, _what's his name? Joseph? James…Jeffrey….Jack? Jackson! _She had no recollection of his last name at all, but her face flushed at the memory of their nonexistent date. _Of course he doesn't know about that, Lisa. Don't act stupid._ "Oh, hi," she greeted casually. "How are you?"

Jackson smiled. Today, he was dressed a little less professionally in a sports coat and jeans. "I'm great. Well, all things considered. I was kind of hoping a pretty brunette would spill coffee on me again."

She felt heat rush to her face and laughed nervously. "What, did some other girl spill coffee on you, too?" The joke seemed stupid as soon as it left her mouth. She almost hated herself for allowing herself to flirt with a man. _It's only been two years, Lisa…_ She forced the thought away.

"Of course I meant you. What have you been up to?" he eyed her button down shirt and black pencil skirt. "Working hard, I see."

"Always," she shook her head. "I've been there since seven this morning, and I won't get home until nine."

"Wow," Jackson's eyes widened in honest surprise. She liked that he didn't make _too_ much of an effort to commiserate with her. "Long day. I'm surprised you _ever_ find time to eat."

Laughing, she held up the parfait. "This is pretty much it until I get home. Being a workaholic has its advantages, though. I've never had to diet."

He grinned, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. "Lucky you. You should eat more often, though. Especially tonight. There's supposed to be a storm coming in."

Lisa forced back her annoyance. "You're probably the tenth person who's mentioned that damn storm today."

Innocently, he cocked his head at her. "What, you don't like storms? Big night, or something?"

She wasn't allowed to discuss Keefe's visit to Miami, and especially not his visit to her hotel. "Well, no, not really. I just don't like driving in the rain."

"Well, I see we've reached a conclusion, then," he told her.

Lisa was confused. "What are you talking about?"

"You're having dinner with me tonight."

Lisa balked. "Excuse me?" How was it that her lie was coming full circle _entirely?_

"Fact number one: you won't have anything in your system except fruit and yogurt until nine o'clock. Fact number two: because you are human, you need to eat. Fact number three: you won't drive. So that leaves me as your chauffeur to a nice hot meal."

She stared at him. "I'm sorry, Mr….Mr….Jackson, but I really can't. You see, I'm terribly busy, and I have to be back at work by two--"

He laughed and took a sip of his coffee. "Come on. It'll be fun. If you want, we'll eat quick, I'll have you back at your place within the hour so you can sleep. Pick you up at nine fifteen?"

She shook her head. "Jackson, that's really sweet--"

"Tell you what," he peered down at her, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "If you can remember my last name, you will be granted a reprieve from dinner."

Lisa thought. And thought. But not about his name. She thought about how it might be nice, for once, to forget her old self and begin working on the new. She'd already let one man down today. And she_ had _told her father that she had a date, so at least she'd be free of her guilt…

But then she thought of the rape. What if this man was just like the others?

"Did you remember it yet?" Jackson asked her.

She shook her head as an elderly woman dropped the bag containing her pastry to the floor. Jackson shot over and scooped it up for her. She thanked him, and he returned to her. Lisa's heart shattered, and his name suddenly came to her. She remembered it because she'd thought it bizarrely unfortunate.

"Rippner," she answered. "Your last name is Rippner."

A downtrodden look crossed his face. He bit his lip and nodded. "Ok. No dinner for Ms. Lisa Reisert. I understand. I'll let you get back to work. It was great seeing--"

"I'll have dinner with you," she blurted out. "I mean, I'd love to. Really. Work can wait for one night."

He beamed at her. "I don't want you to feel forced, though, Lisa."

"I don't. I want to," she answered. "Nine fifteen? Do I need to dress up?"

"You're already dressed up," Jackson replied, gesturing to her with his cup of coffee. "I'll see you tonight."

As she left, her stomach did flips. She realized that she was, in fact, excited about a _man_ for once. There were feelings of anxiety that kept threatening to resurface, but she forced them away. She needed to be happy for a change. Her paranoia could take a night off.

x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x=x

Lisa's doorbell rang at exactly nine-fifteen. She'd decided to just wear her work clothes to dinner. She liked how she looked, and she'd quickly washed up in the bathroom at work as she had known the drive home would occupy most of her time. Her curls, for once, fell perfectly on her shoulders, and without any frizz. She knew that would change as soon as she stepped outside. The rain was falling with a vengeance and hadn't stopped in well over two hours.

Jackson stood with a single rose on her doorstep. She appreciated that. Very few men had ever given her flowers before. "Hi, Jackson," she greeted him, then noticed the look on his face as he handed her the gift. "What's wrong?"

He sighed, pushing his hair out of his face. "Can I come in?"

"Sure," Lisa answered, closing the door but leaving it unlocked, just in case.

"The brakes went on my car just before I got here," he told her. "I pulled the emergency brake and coasted it, but it won't be taking us to the restaurant I made reservations at. Can we take yours?"

She hesitated, remembering that her brakes weren't the best, either. They were sufficient in normal weather, but she didn't dare drive out of town when _she_ was at risk of hydroplaning, too. She'd already planned to call Cynthia to bring her back to work. The drive home had been hellish. "Uh, I'm kind of in the same situation," she sighed. "I'm sorry. Do you need to call someone? Triple A?"

"Actually, yes," Jackson nodded. "My cell phone's not getting any coverage in the storm. Is it okay if I….?" he gestured towards the phone. Lisa nodded.

He quickly called the company and then looked at her. "What do you want to do?" he asked. "They should be here within the hour. I'm so sorry, Lisa. I must look like a huge loser."

"No," Lisa answered with a smirk. "Just a regular sized one." Most of her anxiety had evaporated. There was a foreign man in her house, but his story was legitimate. Plus, she always had the door. She had an escape. She invited Jackson to sit down at the table with her.

He laughed. "We could eat here…I mean, if that's not putting you out."

Lisa nodded. "I have spaghetti in the cupboard, but just to warn you, I'm a horrible cook."

"That's fine," he jumped up and began looking for the box. She helped him. "I am, too. Maybe we can work together. All it involves is boiling water, anyway."

Within the next half an hour, they managed to create two plates of decent-looking noodles covered in slightly crusty but otherwise edible tomato sauce. Both were splashed with water in some spots and had spaghetti sauce on their faces. Lisa giggled as she took in her reflection from the mirror. "I am _beautiful_," she laughed. Jackson shook his head as he set their plates down on the kitchen table.

"You are," he told her. She blushed.

They each enjoyed a glass of wine with their modest meal. Jackson admitted that he was going to take her to an Italian restaurant, anyway. "Its usually a safe bet on dates," he said as she smiled.

Lisa felt completely relaxed and at ease as she finished her food. She was full. She was considering asking Jackson what to do next as she watched the rain fall outside. The night was pitch black, the moon obscured by heavy clouds. Thunder had begun to clap ten minutes ago, and lightning flashed periodically. She worried that Keefe's flight wouldn't arrive in time for his reservation, complicating things for _her_ with Secret Service. They were always pains in her ass when things didn't go perfectly according to their schedule.

She tried to quell her anxieties. She needed to enjoy her time with this new man. Lisa squinted into the blackness of the sky. Over an hour had passed since Jackson had called Triple A. "I wonder where they are, Jackson," she mused, checked her watch. "Its been--wow, it's been over an hour and a half."

He also looked at his watch, then outside with a detached glance. It seemed, suddenly, as if something was bothering him. "Yeah…I don't know. I don't think they'll be coming tonight, Lisa."

Something in his voice threw her off guard. "Why do you say that?"

Jackson looked back at her, his eyes suddenly cold. "I enjoyed the dinner."

"I did too….?" she hesitated. "Jackson, what? What's wrong? Did I do something?"

He snorted. "Of course not. You're doing everything perfectly…_Leese._"

Lisa froze. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me," he replied, chuckling. "Am I not allowed to call you that? Your dad does. I figured I would be allowed to as well."

She stood up, very uncomfortable by his callousness. "I should be getting to bed, Jackson. If you want to give me your number, I can call you later."

He watched her for a moment, then stood to join her. "You're right. It is late. Do you have a pen?"

Lisa was surprised that he agreed so readily and moved to her desk to grab a pen. As she turned, she heard the lock on the door click behind her. Whirling back around, she turned to see Jackson walking slowly towards her. "Why did you do that?" she asked slowly, dreading the answer. _It's happening again…please, God, don't let this happen again._

"I'm just going to give you my number, Leese," he told her calmly, using that name again. She swallowed hard, handing him the pen. She would never call him back. She wanted to run now, but waited. Maybe this was all in her head. He pulled out his wallet, searching for a piece of paper. Lisa glanced at the door behind him as he searched.

He handed her something, and she screamed before she dropped it.

Her father's wallet fell to the floor. Jackson took her hand and squeezed it tightly between his fingers.

"I wouldn't scream again, Lisa," he told her. "I have a feeling your father wouldn't like it."


	7. Six

A/N: Just a short one for now…finals week is rapidly approaching. But enjoy!

* * *

"Where did you get that?" she whispered. Her grip tightened on the counter top behind her. Her other hand dropped Jackson's quickly.

He stepped closer. "I don't think that matters. What matters is what I'm about to tell you, so I suggest that you listen very closely."

Lisa pursed her lips, studying his expression. Her pulse quickened. Her fingers formed miserable knots in front of her as she surveyed him.

Jackson calmly hesitated, taking a final step towards her. Her hips dug into the counter as he slouched against the island opposite her, crossing his arms confidently across his chest. "Lisa Reisert. Lisa Henrietta Reisert."

"How do you know my middle name?" she blurted suddenly. "I never told you that."

He grinned, shaking his head. "Really, enough with the questions. Whoever said that no question is a bad question clearly never dealt with small children…or anxious hotel managers. Actually, Lisa, there's something I need to know from _you_."

"Why should I answer _your_ question if you won't answer _mine_?" Lisa snapped. "That doesn't seem fair."

Suddenly irritated, he jolted up and peered coldly down at her. Their bodies were close, less than an inch apart, but still not touching. "Because," he told her icily. "I am the person who decides whether Joe Reisert will live or die."

The small pale hairs on Lisa's arms prickled and stood on end as she stared up at Jackson. His almost-silver blue eyes, the blue eyes that had seemed so gorgeous and magical just minutes before now terrified her. They were empty of emotion, his pupils darting back and forth as he watched her. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling, as her breathing hissed erratically. _My father_, she thought in panic, _what does he know about Dad? What is he going to do?_ She had no idea how this man--stranger--knew anything about her or her father. He was an apparition in her life--nonexistent one moment, and then the next, she had a beautiful ghost standing in her kitchen, frightening her, threatening her.

"I…I don't understand," Lisa murmured, wishing she could sound more intelligent and less pathetic. Her knees felt weak. "What do you know about my father?"

Jackson smiled patronizingly and began to rattle off an extensive set of facts. "Joseph Patrick Reisert, age fifty-eight, lifelong resident of Miami, Florida, a bitter divorcee. He particularly enjoys his ratty old beige armchair, his flat screen television and playing golf on Sundays. He's retired from Maximillian West Industries, where he served in PR for thirty-eight years. One child, Lisa Reisert, his pride and joy. A daughter he would _die _for." He flicked her chin and she cried out, jerking away. He took her arm, smiling. "What's wrong, Leese? Hit the nail right on the head, didn't I? Daddy's little girl…there's really nothing about you and your father that _I don't know_."

"What do you want?" she hissed quietly, almost inaudibly. "What do you want from me?"

"I believe, Ms. Reisert, that you're acquainted with a certain Charles Keefe?"

The lie sprang automatically to her lips. "No." She shook her head. "I don't know him. I mean, I've heard of him, but--"

Jackson's grip tightened on her arm as he snarled, "That's a fucking lie. You _do _know him, in fact, the two of you are _very_ well acquainted. He's staying at your hotel tonight. That's why you had to go back. Guess what? You're not going back. The storm's getting pretty severe and I need you."

_I need you._ How she had hoped for those words, just not in this context. He knew she knew Keefe. What now? "I don't understand, Jackson, I'm sorry." 

"Don't be pathetic," Jackson snapped. He released her arm, the force pushing her against the counter. She cried out as she knocked her hip on the side. "I need a favor. Keefe is to move into room 4080 when he arrives at the hotel."

"But--"

"Get his ass out of 3825."

Lisa froze. Instantly, she became calmer and her mind steadied. _She understood_. Jackson Rippner was a threat not to her, but to Charles Keefe. She had no idea why Keefe needed to be moved, but clearly, Jackson wasn't interested in _her._ It stung, in a way, that she was only a tool, but a relief because that--_that --_that horrible event wasn't going to take place again. He wasn't going to touch her.

"I don't--I don't have the authority to do that."

"Oh, but surely you do," Jackson answered. The rain seemed to have intensified outside, and Lisa heard thunder. She wondered if she was confusing it with her thudding heart. "See, I know what sort of _authority_ you hold at the Lux, and I know that you're the only person who can get this done when I need it done. So call. Change the room. That's all I ask, and then we can go back to our nice little dinner, or whatever. Did you make dessert?"

"Why do you need it changed?" she stuttered, slurring her words. "I mean--the room he has now is very nice, we already set him up with Cristal and--"

Jackson's fingers clamped around her wrist. "Lisa," he hissed. "Remember what I said about asking questions?"

"Um. Yes." 

His grip grew tighter. She cried out. "And do you remember me showing you your father's wallet?"

"…yes." Lisa didn't understand, she still couldn't comprehend this. Why did he have the wallet in the first place?

Jackson seemed to read her mind. "An associate of mine stole it off your dad's desk. Right next to your graduation picture, actually. I have to say, Leese, you filled out quite nicely." 

Outraged and repulsed, Lisa yanked her arm away from him and darted towards the door. She knew it was locked the moment she touched the handle and she tugged futilely, her fingers scrambling over the small--_too_ small, why hadn't she just bought a bolt?--lock and she flung the door open just in the nick of time.

Almost. Jackson's arms wrapped around her neck as she lunged forward and he slammed her to the ground, pressing his full weight against her as she choked and gasped for air. The blow to her neck rendered her speechless for a moment and her attempts to scream came out as petrified croaks. Jackson held her legs to the floor with his own and his muscular body prevented her from struggling. "That was stupid."

"Get--_off-_-me!" she yelled, jerking wildly as panic settled into her chest. It felt like the damned cat was sleeping on her ribs again.

Jackson sighed. "Why are you being so fucking difficult? One phone call, Lisa, that's all I ask. You're a woman, aren't you supposed to enjoy that?"

Lisa sucked in air and prepared to scream again, terrified because of the massive man atop her, too close to her body. Jackson rolled his eyes and his head approached hers. Before she could react, she felt a sharp, intense pain and she was gone.


	8. Seven

Jackson drew his head away slowly, instantly regretting his decision. "Fuck," he swore quietly, dabbing drops of blood away from his forehead. A zigzag of pain shot through his temples, then disappeared as quickly as it had come.

He tried to refrain from force as much as possible in these situations. He hated to use violence against his targets. It gave them more ammunition should he, unlikely, be caught. It was a lot harder to claim abuse when the only scars he left were mental or emotional. Now Lisa would have a nice little goose egg to remember him by.

Standing, Jackson felt a bit dizzy. He walked it off, pacing around her living room. The dirty dishes from their dinner still rested on the table. He snickered to himself. How quaint. He looked back at Lisa, and, gingerly, dug his hands beneath her and scooped her up onto the couch. He arranged her head on the cushion, smoothing her tousled hair, and walked to the dining room. He cleared the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher, telling himself that he was only doing this because he needed to gather his thoughts.

So he'd dropped the initial bomb. That was always the hardest part, because he never had a concrete idea of how the receiver of bad news would respond. Lisa had been one of the better ones. He'd dealt with targets before who, upon hearing the bad treatment that was to befall them or their loved ones, would more or less lose all motor function. At least she'd remained conscious until he'd lost his temper.

And why had he? Had she really offended him that much? Jackson wasn't one to let his frustration take hold of his behavior. He preferred logistical, practiced calculation over brute force. There was a reason why he was in management. He simply could not handle field work. It was beneath him. He chose to commit to the subtle artistry that mental manipulation provided him. Though handy with a knife, Jackson had always hated firearms. It just seemed so primitive, so bland. Killing to him wasn't a coldblooded thing--he only killed out of passion. He only killed when he was really, really pissed off.

Jackson had experienced a lot of death in his relatively short life, but very few of the deaths had been of his own doing. He turned the faucet on over the dishes, letting it grow warmer as he poured soap on a sponge. He wasn't acutely aware of what he was doing as he leaned on the counter, thinking. How many had he killed? Five? Ten? Indirectly, the numbers were incomprehensible. It was his job, after all. Nothing to feel guilty over because his hadn't been the hand dealing the ultimate cards of fate. No, he decided, he'd probably only killed six people.

Jorge Melendez, Nathan Simpson, Barney Terrence, Timothy Jin, and some random thug in a bar who had threatened a target.

And his father. He always forgot about his father.

Jackson swallowed, brushing the thought away as he dragged the sponge over the plate. It was white porcelain, with a light blue lattice around the edges. Lisa had sensible tastes, somewhat old-fashioned. She wasn't like many of the women her age who still dressed as if they were sixteen and decorated in a similar fashion. No stuffed animals to be found.

He stared at the pale surface, imagining it was Lisa's skin. Immaculate, untouched. She did have lovely skin. He removed the sponge and wiped spaghetti sauce away with his bare fingers. The calloused skin wiped the bloody red away, and he imagined it was her blood, on her skin. He imagined his lips wiping the stain away, wiping away everything. The red remained, and he scraped at it with his nails. What would she do if he grazed her skin with his nails?

A spurt of scalding water shot from the faucet and burned him. Cursing, Jackson forcefully dropped the plate in the sink. It shattered into three large, uneven pieces. He shut off the tap and dried his warm hands. The water had been enough to jolt him from his fantasies. What the hell was he doing? _Why_ had doing the dishes turned him on? And why was he doing her goddamned dishes in the first place?

Jackson glanced over at her motionless form. Her slender body barely covered the length of the couch, and her mouth hung slightly open in her slumber. He knew she was out cold. She wouldn't dream at all during her little nap. He hoped he hadn't given her a concussion. He needed her as coherent as possible for the next twelve hours.

A particularly loud clap of thunder startled him. The lights flickered. Jackson was beginning to worry. If the storm continued on like this, there was a good chance that they'd have to leave the house. Lisa's apartment was worryingly close to the water, and on the drive over the radio stations had been buzzing with a hurricane watch. That was before the rain had really started to pick up. No doubt the watch had now been upgraded to a warning.

He checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. Keefe was due to arrive at the hotel within less than five hours. They were running on a tight schedule here. He hoped Lisa's snooze wouldn't last more than an hour. As it was, she was proving difficult to persuade. If everything went as planned, when she woke up he would remind her of the situation and, docile little people-pleaser that she was, she'd make the call. He wasn't anticipating any problems. That is, as long as the storm held off a little longer. His car was, despite what he'd told Lisa, operating, but it would be a hassle to drive across the city with a hurricane on its way, if not altogether impossible.

Jackson ran a hand through his hair, wandering around Lisa's apartment. It wasn't that big, or that elaborate. Lisa seemed to be a woman of simple tastes. He still hadn't completely cracked her, but there didn't seem to be much that needed cracking. She was just a plain, boring cat lady. No boyfriend, not many friends, never even comprehended a social life. He wondered why she lived in Miami in the first place. It's main attraction was the nightclub scene, and she completely avoided it. Perhaps she liked the sun. He chuckled, chiding himself as he examined her porcelain skin from a distance. Of course not. It was her father, he decided, dear old Dad that kept her so close.

He felt a brush of velvet against his leg and peered down to see Lisa's damned cat--Ava, was it?--purring against him. He shook the animal off and opened the sliding glass door, forcing it outside into the rain. It yowled loudly. He stared indifferently at it through the pane. Whatever. He despised cats probably more than they hated water.

Bored, Jackson shoved Lisa's feet off the couch and sat beside her, tapping his long fingers on the armrest. Her couch was actually fairly comfortable. The one in his new apartment wasn't the best, but he didn't mind. He hadn't bought it for luxury, it was one mainly of functionality. It was for his healing from the wounds inflicted by the Bosnian job, for planning out his current affairs. For planning his current attack, to be more precise.

He looked at Lisa. Her body was now bent in an awkward, squiggly shape. He sighed, lifting her feet into his lap. He regretted the gesture instantly, but as he went to remove the delicate things, she stirred and murmured, "Dad…" He kept them there, but he didn't know why. Fuck it.

She was lucky to be so close to her father, Jackson thought. His lips hardened into a thin, tight line as he thought of his own. Jackson Marshall Senior. After his death, Jackson had immediately taken his mother's last name, as ridiculous as it made his new name. Jackson Marshall certainly carried more obvious dignity, but every time Jackson said it he wanted to vomit. Thinking of his father made him sick.

Ten years. Ten long, horrible years that Jackson had spent powerless at the hands of a maniac. His father wasn't an addict. He'd never touched alcohol or any sort of drug in his life. He was just a sadist. It was the final night that did it for Jackson, the final night that pushed him over the edge, that converted him into the monster his father was--although, he thought scathingly, it would _have_ to be the final night because how could there be further nights after he killed the man?

Jackson, even at such a young age, had known that his father had many mistresses. His mother knew, too, but she pretended she didn't. She pretended that the lipstick smeared all over his shirt was indeed frosting from the cupcakes his secretary had brought in. She believed. She ate the lies up because she _had_ to. There was no way she could get a job--not in her condition.

She'd been confined to a wheelchair since the birth of Jackson's younger brother, Isaiah, though the two weren't related. Jackson was the only person, other than his parents, obviously, that knew why. It had been during the refurbishment of the half bath, when the whole structure had been torn apart for repairs. Jackson remembered walking past the bathroom and hearing them arguing. He sat outside the door and peered in, thinking that the framework of boards above their heads looked like an evil skeleton leering down at them. It looked like death.

What had scared him more were their terse, violent voices. He didn't want them to get a divorce. He didn't quite know, at the time, what that was, but his classmates gave him the idea that it was a very, very bad thing--and probably involved the skeleton.

Jackson's mother was accusing his father of an affair, crying and hissing in a low voice, surprisingly monotone. She called him a dirty bastard. Jackson didn't know what that meant. And then--_then--_she threatened divorce.

"Stupid bitch," his father had growled back. His mother had whimpered then. Jackson squeezed his eyes shut. "Nobody will ever want you, you fucking whore."

"That's not true," she had whispered with a small, strong reserve. "That's not true and you know it."

Jackson had been proud of her, and forgot to keep his eyes closed. He looked into the bathroom just as his father pulled a loose plywood from the wall and began beating his wife with it. He shattered the bones in her legs. The attack had almost killed her. She didn't accuse him of cheating again.

That wasn't what had driven Jackson over the edge, however. He was returning from a night spent at a friend's house when he walked through the door. His father was on the couch. A busty Latina was beneath him. Jackson had stood there, dumbstruck, as his father grunted and pulled out, giving himself a quick shake before speaking to his son. "Oh. What are you doing home?"

Jackson didn't know where his mother was. He didn't care. Her face sprang instantly to his mind, and he thought of her loving, smiling mouth, her soft, gentle hands, the way she squeezed him in a smothering hug, the way she always cooked his favorite dinners when he did something nice for someone. And he just snapped. He marched into his father's room and pulled a gun from a rack. He hadn't even known what type of gun it was, and he sure as hell didn't know now. But it had worked. His fathers brains had covered the Latina, and when he killed her as well, he didn't know whose were whose. And then he ran. He never stopped. He was still running.

Jackson ran his finger over Lisa's foot, sliding it over the sensitive bone that curved towards her leg. Her skin was soft, too, just like his mother's. He shook himself awake as Lisa stirred again.

This was not acceptable.

Lisa was awakening, and there was no time left to play the pussy. He had to push his parents away from his mind, forget everything about them, as he'd done the past nineteen years. He was no longer Jackson Marshall, Jr. He was Jackson Rippner, and he didn't play with guns.

He was serious this time.


	9. Eight

Lisa felt like hell. The only thing she could feel was the throbbing pressure on her temples. She groaned, trying to move her head. It felt like her brains had loosened and were rattling around against her skull.

What had happened? Was she hungover? If so, this was the worst, albeit few, hangovers of her life. What had she had to drink?

Wine. Just wine…with Jackson….

Jackson Rippner. The memories came flooding back to her, killing her head, making her cry out with pain and fear. She told herself it was pain. _Don't let yourself be afraid,_ she told herself. _Dr. Phil…Dr Phil. His book tells you not to be afraid. You told yourself this would never happen again, that you wouldn't let a stranger control you._ She slowly opened her eyes. And she promptly screamed, curling up into the fetal position.

Jackson relinquished her feet and shot from the couch, smirking. "Nice nap?" he checked his watch. "You were out longer than I thought. Half an hour."

"Why were you holding my feet?" Thank God the tremble wasn't present in her voice.

"I wasn't," he replied, but she thought she noticed a small quiver of embarrassment in his voice. "How does your head feel?"

Lisa sat up, trying to defy the ache. It didn't work. She moaned, rubbing her head. Jackson reached into his pocket, extracting two small white pills. She gazed suspiciously at them, shaking her head.

"What?"

"Why should I trust you enough to take _drugs _from you?" Lisa hissed. "I don't even know what that is."

He held it closer and tilted it so that the light settled into the grooves of the brand name etched into the small pills. _Tylenol._ Lisa begrudgingly took the pills. "Good, Leese. I need you coherent for this."

Her head snapped up and the pills slid slowly down her throat, tearing at the skin. She coughed. "W-what?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "We've already been through this. Keefe. Switch him. 4080. Now. Or your dad dies."

How could he be so matter-of-fact about this? His nonchalance was annihilating her. She studied him carefully. His blue eyes pierced their way back to her and she tried not to shudder. "I want--I want to call him first. To make sure he's okay."

Jackson stared, aggravated, at her. "No."

"How do I know you haven't hurt him yet?"

Growling, Jackson told her, "_I,_ Lisa, will not be touching him. I have a very faithful little dog sitting outside his house in a silver Beemer…probably sharpening his very new, very nice Ka-Bar."

Lisa swallowed hard. The words registered and sank in her brain like weights. Jackson took her silence for stupidity and added, "That's a knife, Leese."

"I know," she hissed, her breathing growing more labored by the minute. Tears streamed down her face. "But how do I know you haven't already…already told your _dog_ to kill him? How do I know that once I make the call, your guy won't kill him anyway?

Jackson smirked. "He won't do anything until I tell him. He's a good dog. Trust me."

_Trust_ him. That was fresh. This man wanted her to trust him after she'd already given him so much. Lisa silently resolved to never speak to another man as long as she lived. Her days of naiveté were over.

"Let me call him, or I won't make the call."

She watched as he chewed on his lip, thinking it over. She crossed her fingers, but she had already won him over. Naturally, she wanted to make sure her father was still alive before she did anything for this lunatic--but she was also begging for time. Jackson picked up her phone from the cradle and callously tossed it to her. She juggled with it before securing a firm grasp and staring back at him.

"Your dime," he shrugged, crossing his arms. "You have one minute."

Lisa quickly punched in her father's number, her brain on overdrive while she did so. She wasn't focused on the digits her fingers pressed, but on what she was going to do next. The ringing jarred her, and she listened carefully as it continued. Three rings. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Nine. Eleven. Terrified, she stared at Jackson. "You said he wouldn't hurt him."

Jackson shrugged his shoulders again, and mouthed to her, _What do you expect me to do? _

Lisa hung up when she reached the answering machine, feeling her throat close, and dialed again. Jackson made an impatient noise, shuffling his feet. It rang again. One. Two. Three. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine--

"Hello?" her father's snappish, irritable voice answer. Lisa was reminded of their fight just days ago. She felt a surge of guilt, her emotions tangled in her chest as she wished desperately that she could take back her words. "Dad!"

"Leese?" she heard a long sigh, and then a pause. "It's after midnight. Why are you calling so late? Is everything alright? Should I be worried? What do you need?"

Lisa began to cry harder, out of relief and out of guilt. She had to save him. She had to save her dad, even if it meant, "Dad, I'm fine, I…I just…I needed to--"

Jackson ripped the phone from her hands and set it back on the cradle. "Satisfied?"

Lisa swung at him. Her fist connected sharply with his cheek, and, as she hadn't thought out their combat before she'd begun it, she hesitated. Her pause was brief, but it was enough time for Jackson to grab hold of her wrists and throw her up against the wall. Her head cracked painfully against the sheetrock and she moaned, massaging it as he walked over to her. Her body slid slowly to the floor and she looked up at him, terrified but resolute. "Leave me…" she gasped for air. "…the _fuck_ alone…"

Jackson seized her elbow, wrenching her to her feet. He shoved the phone back at her, and hissed through his teeth, "Make the call."

Dizzy, and with the worst headache she'd ever had, Lisa reluctantly accepted the phone. She dialed the Lux Atlantic's number, having to restart three times because her hands were shaking so badly. It finally rang through. Cynthia picked up on the second ring. "Lux Atlantic, this is Cynthia. How can I help you?"

"Cynthia, it's Lisa." 

"Lisa!" Cynthia cried. She was always frantic. "Where are you? You said you'd be back by eleven, it's already twelve-thirty, I'm freaking out, I--"

Thunder crackled outside and a gust of wind pushed a surge of rain against the apartment. Lisa heard her windows creak in protest and looked at Jackson. His expression was noncommittal, but at her gaze he raised his eyebrows and waved his hand to urge her forward. "It's a long story, but, I…I, um, need a favor…"

"Sure, but listen, when are you getting back?" Cynthia rushed her, distracted. "I really could use your help. All this Keefe stuff is overwhelming, the cigars, the Cristal…I just can't--"

Her voice faded. Lisa frowned. "You can't what? Cynthia?"

The line was dead. She glanced briefly at the screen of her cradle. It was usually illuminated, but now it was dark. The storm must have knocked the power out. She bit her lip, suddenly inspired.

"Oh," she said to nobody. "Well, I completely understand…I'll be back as soon as I can. But listen, Cynthia, I need you to change Keefe's room. We've had an issue with maintenance….yeah….he's in 3825.…What? No, don't worry about that. Move him to 4080. I'll give you my login information…it's lreisert, the password is--"

When she had begun to think her façade was successful, Jackson ripped the phone from her hand and threw it forcefully onto the cradle. She stumbled away from him, backing towards the couch. Now what? Her brain wasn't creating ideas quickly enough, and she panicked, her throat dry. She couldn't scream anyhow. She'd seen how effective that was. Her head throbbed as Jackson strode quickly towards her.

He didn't touch her, but stood too close for comfort. She could feel his hot, angry breath on her as he spoke, and his flashing teeth made her think of a snapping, vicious dog. "That was clever, Lisa, thinking on the spot. I wouldn't expect it from you. You know, when this gets over, I may have to steal you."

Lisa cringed, horrified. She could hardly hear him as the rain further intensified outside. She hadn't thought it could get any worse, but it was. Was there a hurricane approaching? She began to fear for her life. If he killed her, there was a good chance that nobody would ever find her. Her body could easily be swallowed by the encroaching sea. "Why are you doing this?"

"Well, sometimes bad things happen to good people," he snidely replied, taking her chin in his fingers and squeezing it tightly. She closed her eyes, forcing them shut.

"You lied to me," she whispered. Lightning flashed again, illuminating his milky skin. "You're not the man you pretended to be."

He smirked as he ran his finger along her lips. "I lied to you? Leese, I left out information that you didn't need to know yet. If anybody's a liar, it's you."

Her heart skipped._ The rape?_ How did he know? Instinctively, she tried to struggle from his grasp. His grip tightened around her forearms, and as she moved to pull away, another bolt of lightning flashed outside the window and the room was thrust into darkness. Her microwave made a buzzing noise as the power was extinguished. "_Fuck_," she whispered to herself. Jackson heard her and laughed.

"This makes things more interesting, doesn't it?" he murmured, pressing his face closer to hers. In the darkness, he was only a shadow, but as he came even closer his eyes glinted. She tried not to cry out. "We can't make that call until we have an operating telephone." He let her go.

"So what should we do?" he spread his arms wide, gesturing about the airy living room. The rain formed a curtain between the window and the rest of the world. Lisa trembled. As a child, she'd been terrified of lightning storms. Her fears were exaggerated by the hurricane warnings and the frightening man in her living room. "We have the whole night ahead of us. Just you and me."

Lisa turned away from him, catching a glimpse of her scrapbook station out of the corner of her eye. A new pair of scissors sat on the counter next to her latest project. She edged towards them, her fingers grappling for support on the countertop. She found the scissors and felt a sudden drop in courage. Her grip slackened. _What if I kill him?_

Jackson stepped closer, returning to her, and she knew her time was waning. "Hm, Leese? You have time before you need to make the call. It's ten o'clock now, and Keefe won't be in his room until five. What do you say? Got some time to kill?"

_Kill. _He could kill her. He wanted to kill Keefe. She had to do this. Grabbing the scissors, she emitted a high-pitched cry as she drove them towards his neck. He caught her wrist and slammed it against the edge of the counter, twisting it sharply and pinning it behind her back. She yelled in pain, dropping the scissors. They clattered to the floor, ignored, as Jackson slammed her against the refrigerator. The handle drove into her back and he let go of her arm only to use his hands to viciously squeeze her face.

"I guess you aren't interested in quality time with Jackson, are you?" he hissed. "That's fine. That's just fucking fine. How about some twenty questions, hm? Why don't you tell me what's going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why don't you let me in on why you're so fucked up, why you won't go _near_ a man and if one comes near you, you break down completely."

She opened her dry mouth to reply, but before she could do so, she was being thrown to the floor, her head cracking against the hardwood. Her feet kicked out towards Jackson, aiming at anything they could reach, but he caught them with his own as he knelt beside her and deftly pinned her to the floor. She flailed beneath him, attempting to claw at his face before he caught her hands in one of his and tucked them above her head.

"What happened, Lisa?" he cooed, leering down at her. "Was it the divorce? Was it really the divorce that you claimed to have destroyed your life so badly? You're a grown woman, certainly mature enough to handle your mommy and daddy sleeping in separate beds. What is it, then? Bad breakup?"

Tears began to stream from her eyes as Jackson's weight shifted atop her. His hip bones dug into hers, and the hard floor beneath her was far too much like the hot concrete. She emitted a cry, but it was stifled by the tears in her throat.

"I'll bet he was handsome," Jackson mused. "The business type. Too invested in his career, Leese? Were you going to get married? Did he want kids too? White picket fence? A puppy?" As Jackson spoke, his fingers trailed her stomach. It was the last straw. She screamed at him and lifted her knee, directing it to his groin. He slid to the side just in time, avoiding her blow and managing to maintain his control.

He hesitated. Looking down, Lisa saw that her sweater had shifted slightly with her movement, exposing the skin just above her breasts. She watched, wincing, as Jackson's fingers pulled it down further. The rain was the only sound as he ran his thumb along the outline of her scar. "So that's what it is, then."


	10. Nine

Jackson's finger stopped at the corner of the jagged ridge, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach. It wasn't the scar that bothered him. It was what the scar represented, the notion that one individual had the power to commit such a revolting act, to affect a person so entirely. He'd killed before. He had slaughtered more than he could count, checking each off on his to-do list because that was his job. To kill.

But he'd never been with a woman out of violence. He had never forced himself upon anybody. He'd pretended, he had made women think that he was capable of rape. But he had had to force himself to do so.

Looking down at the mark on Lisa Reisert's chest, Jackson wasn't quite sure what he was feeling. Disgust? Anger? And God how he hated to admit it, but…jealousy? Was he envious of some man who had had the experience of sex with this beautiful woman? Jackson refused to admit that he was feeling anything. He made an effort to wipe himself clean of any thoughts other than those about how this information would affect his job. So Lisa was a broken woman. Her early morning scrambled eggs, her cat lady persona, her hesitation to date, everything, everything that made her such a wonderfully fucked up person was because of this traumatic experience. In a way he wanted to kill the fucker because it made Jackson's job harder. Who knew what was going through Lisa's mind right now?

"So that's what it is," he murmured again, meeting her eyes. They had filled with tears. In all of his time watching her, he had never seen her cry. He'd thought she was stronger than that. She wriggled beneath him, grinding against his hips. Jackson was positive that she wasn't aware of how arousing the movement was. He closed his legs more tightly around her to keep her still. "You were raped."

"_Don't_," she whined. "Don't say that word."

"Well, what, Lisa?" he snapped, shaking her face with his hands. "What the _fuck_ would you call it? I sure as hell don't call it a walk in a field full of flowers. Some asshole forced himself on you because he was a pig who wasn't good enough to get you to willingly sleep with him. He probably roofied you so much you didn't even know what your fucking name was."

Lisa just stared at him for a moment before looking away, watching the wall with a blank expression before squeezing her eyes shut. She clenched her lips together and shuddered deeply. "Am I right, Leese?" he muttered to her. She didn't want to talk about it, that much was clear. He wasn't sure why he was torturing her like this, other than that something within him was driving him to it. He wanted to watch her suffer. It did something for him. "Did you fight back? _Could_ you have fought back?"

"Screw you," she whispered to him. Jackson refrained from any puns. "It's none of your goddamn business."

"Yes, it is," he corrected her. His grip slackened on her cheek, from a tight hold to a gentle caress. "Because you and I are going to get very intimate tonight, whether you like it or not."

Lisa made a small noise, a cross between a whimper and a sob, as her body went rigid beneath him. "Get off me. Get off me right _now._"

Jackson was not going to let her off this easily. "Tell me, Lisa, or we can lay like this all night. I don't know about you, but I'm perfectly comfortable. Did you fight him? Did you push at him like you're pushing at me?"

Another wave of fear crossed her eyes, disappearing as she tried to hide it. She was afraid that he was going to violate her. She'd already been hurt like that one time too many. "I-I didn't fight him, but…I could have. I wasn't drugged."

"Why didn't you fight him?"

Lisa opened her mouth to respond and then closed it, hesitating. He could tell she wanted to lie to him. She wasn't going to tell him the whole truth if she could avoid it. And she was a horrible liar.

Suddenly, she lifted her knee to his groin and slammed it against him. He had never been hit that hard. Dazed, he collapsed, white stars fluttering across his vision. He briefly clutched himself to make sure they were still attached as she bolted for the door. Jackson didn't know how he did it, but he managed to get to his feet and, his legs miles longer than hers, cut her off before she reached the knob.

He slammed her head off the wall, forcing her skull to collide brutally with the plywood several times before he decided he'd punished her enough. If this woman made it out of this apartment without brain damage he'd owe her a medal of endurance. Lisa screamed before Jackson could cover her small mouth with his hand. "Shut the _fuck _up," he whispered harshly to her. "I've had about enough of this from you. Why are you so afraid? What could I possibly do to you that hasn't been done before, hm? Kill you? That's not going to happen, Leese, not when we're this close to completing our goal."

"Our goal," she hissed bravely at him. "Our goal, right. Like killing Keefe is something we've endeavored to do forever. The only way you'll kill Keefe is if I die first."

"Those are awfully brave words for a woman in your predicament," Jackson told her. "You know, it's almost as if you don't care if your father dies."

Lisa froze, her voice wavering and slow. "Don't even pretend that you know what I'm going through. Don't act like you know how much I care about my father. Unlike you, _Jack_, I have a soul."

_Jack._ His father called him Jack. The name sent ripples of anger through Jackson's veins and without thinking his fingers formed a fist as he drove them into Lisa's stomach. She grunted and slid to the floor, clutching her abdomen. He kicked her once and then straddled her as she lay there, her eyelids fluttering and tears streaming down her face.

"I don't care about my father, Lisa? You know, you're probably right. You know why?"

She didn't respond, looking away from him. He gripped her chin and pulled her face to his, stretching her neck. "Answer me. Do you know why I have no fucking relationship with my father?"

She licked her lips. Blood had formed in a crack on her lip. "B-because he knows what a monster you are."

Jackson threw her back to the floor, holding her shoulders down so she couldn't wriggle. "No, Leese. I have no relationship with him because I killed him. I killed him way back when you were still probably playing with Barbie dolls because I knew what a filthy cocksucker he was and I wanted to save every other woman on the planet from him."

Lisa stared up at him. She looked almost drunk and ready to pass out. Her eyes were dilated and her mouth hung slightly open. He didn't want to think about the agony she was in right now. He actually didn't want to think at all. He wasn't thinking, and as he came to this revelation wanted to hit himself in the nuts again. He was letting his memories and his emotions take over. He wasn't used to being this out of control. Lisa didn't need to know his weaknesses. She didn't need to see him angry. He needed her to make that call, and he needed to not kill her before she could make it. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, which he thought would be a successful effort until she opened her mouth again. "Like father, like son. I'm sure he'd be so proud of his-"

That did it. Lisa lay on the floor, her tangled, messy auburn curls splayed out behind her like a puddle of blood, and all he could think of was his father when he'd shot him. Jackson pushed his lips against Lisa's, trying to shut her up, to get her to stop talking so he could think. He began to feel aroused, wondering if her punishment should continue further. She squirmed against him and bit his tongue. He dug into his jacket for his knife, pressing it against her milky white collarbone as he pulled his mouth away. Lisa sucked in a breath and stopped moving, stopped talking, stopped being Lisa.

"I don't….Jackson, please," she croaked, her voice husky from the kiss. Jackson didn't know if he could call it a kiss, not even in his mind. It certainly wasn't for Lisa. It was a warning, if anything at all. He took a deep breath but held the knife steady, pressing it slightly to her chest. "Please don't do this, please…"

She was begging. Why was she so terrified now? The knife?

"What's wrong, Leese?" he crooned, relieved to be in control again. "Afraid of this old thing? It's not that bad, I promise."

Lisa studied him, her eyes suddenly mournful. "That's….that's why I didn't fight back."

Jackson wasn't sure why he allowed it, but he suddenly felt guilty, more so for kissing her than for the knife. He was not a rapist. He could not allow himself to lose control. He opened his mouth to say something, not to apologize, but to offer gentler words, as a loud crash of thunder sounded outside. They were next to the window, so Jackson leaned forward to peer out at the coast. He was worried by what he saw. The water was rising, and it was rising fast. He made a quick decision. His Miami house was more landlocked than Lisa's. He could take her there to finish the job. All he needed was a phone call, and it didn't have to be made from Lisa's house. His brakes were not actually dead, as he'd led Lisa to believe, and he had four wheel drive that would hopefully carry them through this squall.

"Come on," he tucked his knife away abruptly and pulled Lisa roughly to her feet. She made a noise of protest as he tugged at her, seeming surprised that his aura had changed so quickly. "We're leaving. I'm not going to let my job be compromised by this weather. Jesus, Lisa, why would you buy a house so close to the shore in a hurricane zone anyway?"

She didn't answer. He was glad. He didn't allow her to take her purse or anything else for that matter, but grabbed his keys and pulled her out the door. He was stunned when she tried to lock the door behind her. Logical Lisa, always on the ball even when being threatened by an assassin.

"Leave the fucking door alone," Jackson snarled at her. "You'll be lucky if your house even makes it out of this shit."

They ran down the stairs to his car, and Jackson was thinking about how he was going to get Lisa to get into the car willingly when he stopped dead in his tracks.

A large palmetto lay on his car, crushing the hood so that the vehicle was almost completely unrecognizable. Even worse, he had parked right next to Lisa, and the thick trunk had extended to smash hers as well. He could not have made worse luck for himself if he had tried. He looked at Lisa and couldn't read her face in the pitch black night.

He looked back at the apartment building, realizing that the much of the commotion he'd heard during his fights with Lisa hadn't just been the two of them and the storm. It had been people abandoning the building because of the rain.

They were royally screwed. They had to stay. It was either that or become further drenched by the storm as they stood outside hemming and hawing. He dragged her back inside and up the stairs.

"What are we doing?" she yelled to him. She sounded like a small child, terrified and anxious and looking for guidance.

"Staying here," he responded. "Do you have any emergency supplies?"

"Um, yeah, I guess. Why?"

As they reached her door, he swung it open and frowned down at her. "Because it looks like it's just the two of us now, and I think it's going to be a long night."


	11. Ten

**Author's Note: So sorry for the delay in updating! This scene has been hard to write, and I've been busy with work and classes. My apologies! **

_A long night, a long night_

The words reverberated inside Lisa's throbbing head as Jackson wrenched her back inside and slammed the door behind him. She looked up at him. His normally collected blue eyes were darting around the room, his complexion flushed. For the first time that night, Lisa had the sense that he had no idea what he was doing.

"Jackson," she whispered. "Jackson, I don't think we should be standing by the windows." She regretted her words instantly. Why the hell did she care what happened to him? She hoped a tree would come crashing through the bay window and flatten him.

"Yeah." Without saying anything else, he took her by the arm and guided her to the basement. Her stomach clenched as they descended the stairs, into an even blacker room with even fewer escape options.

She grabbed the railing and stood still. Jackson stumbled and glared at her. "What now, Lisa?"  
"I don't know—I don't know if the basement is such a good idea. I meant we should just go somewhere else-"  
"Like where?" Jackson sneered. "Your _bedroom_? Good idea. Maybe we can hide under the covers. Build a fort. Have a tickle fight. What a great time that'll be."

Lisa scowled. "I just meant, it's dark, and it might flood, okay?"

"If it starts to flood we'll go back up," Jackson reasoned, his voice inundated with impatience. "But right now, it's the only place without windows. Our greatest danger right now is falling trees. I swear to God, Lisa, I don't know why the fuck you'd pick a house that practically floats in _good_ weather…"

"I don't think it's your name on the mortgage, asshole," Lisa muttered, following him downstairs. He made a beeline for the storage closet, rummaging through it. It made her stomach turn to think that he knew the layout of her house almost as well as she did. He knew that there were blankets and bottles of water in that closet.

He wasn't paying attention to her. She turned away from him and headed towards the workbench her father had given her. She'd never used the damned thing, so the tools were still sharp and at the ready.

Her intention had been to find a flashlight, but when she opened the top drawer she remembered the full extent of the gift. Her fingers closed around a hammer.

"What are we building tonight, Lisa?" Jackson's fingers closed around the hand that held her hammer. Lisa withdrew quickly and, in the darkness, stumbled into his chest. She cried out as he righted her and turned her around.

"I didn't-"

"You didn't think I was paying attention," he murmured, scanning her face. "We're awfully handy tonight, aren't we?"

Lisa wanted to respond but couldn't think of a retort. His closeness made her uncomfortable and cold. She retreated to the futon, wrapping herself in one of the blankets that he had draped over the cushions. Jackson approached her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

The wind was whistling outside, but its frequency was becoming lower pitched, like the deepening of a growl. She could hear the rain pelting the roof even from the lowest depths of her house. Jackson could kill her tonight and nobody would ever find her.

He sat next to her but a safe distance away. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them. Neither of them were going anywhere. She should have felt relief at the fact that she couldn't make a phone call until the power was restored, but she realized that Keefe's flight was probably delayed, anyway. He would arrive in Miami. And she would have to either make that call or sacrifice her father. Or save herself somewhere in between.

"Why me?"

Jackson looked at her. "What do you mean, why you? It's a hurricane, Leese. The entire coast is being hammered. Don't think you're so special."

She shook her head. "You know what I mean. Why my hotel? Keefe's on a tour across the entire state. There would be more convenient times, more pliable managers who would willingly give him up for a few bucks. He's not the most popular guy, you know."

"But you like him."

"I didn't say that," Lisa responded slowly. "I just have a better sense of right and wrong than you do. I'm not going to sacrifice a man's life just because he annoys me."

"Wherever you get this idea that I have no sense of right and wrong, forget it," Jackson told her. He cleared his throat. "I know exactly what I'm doing that's wrong. If I didn't know that, I would have done what I wanted upstairs. You wouldn't have been happy, and it certainly would have been wrong, but it would have happened. So before you get all fucking pious with me, think about how lucky you are."

Lisa stood up, balling her hands into fists. Blood rushed to her face. She was pissed, undeniably pissed. She couldn't remember ever having been angrier. "I'm _lucky_? Why, because you didn't rape me? Of all the misogynistic things, Jackson. Jesus! I mean, what, because you're in _control_ here, you get to take advantage of me?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, what then, because you're attractive?" Lisa snarled. "You're a horrible person and a liar. You deserve nothing less than a slow death in this fucking storm, and I hope that's what you get." She turned away from him. The stairs were close. She bolted for them.

In a way, she'd known all along that Jackson would pursue her, that he would overcome her. And he did. She had craved the fight. She needed to fight him. Wherever this newfound aggressiveness was coming from, she didn't know, but she knew her fear in him was shrinking with every sentence that slipped from his mouth. He was unbearable, a sham. He wasn't half the man she'd thought he was in the beginning, and her disappointment was reflecting itself in her blossoming hatred of him.

In what seemed like the fifteenth time of the night, Jackson was on top of her, straddling her and forcing her to the floor.

"Aren't you getting sick of this, Lisa?" he sighed as she fought against him. She was growing desperate. Her teeth grazed his arm. His arm grazed her face.

"Get off me, Jackson," she hissed. "Of course I'm sick of this. But what do you expect me to do? Sit back and play Truth or Dare with you?"

He smiled at her. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"

"Because you probably weigh less than I do. Because you're a fake. Because I can see who you really are, and it's disgusting. You have nothing to hide, Jack."

"You're right. You're the one doing all the concealing, Leese," he remarked, raising a single eyebrow. "Tell me. Tell me about everything. I've just been dying to know. In all those weeks of watching you, I've just had this one burning question."

"Really? And what's that?" Lisa managed to push his arms away, but he restrained her in seconds. "Why I got raped? Because I'm weak, apparently. According to him, because I was a slut. Because I wanted it. Because I was a dirty whore. That's why. Okay? That's why."

She was crying despite her best efforts to hold it back. She suddenly realized that Jackson couldn't see this. The basement was too dark. She could only see his eyes when he turned and the meager light from the flashlight balanced on the workbench caught it.

"That wasn't my question," he told her. "I wanted to know why you refused to let anybody close."

"I think what I just said could probably answer that, don't you?"

"No," Jackson responded. "I don't think so, not at all."

Lisa didn't answer. She didn't like that he was chewing at her. She didn't like that this man, this person who was trying to take everything away from her, for the second time in her life, was getting to her.

She didn't realize she had closed her eyes but started when she felt his lips on her cheek. She made a noise but it didn't quite register in her brain. Her body locked up as his lips moved to her neck and followed the chain of her necklace to her cleavage.

He was kissing her, kissing her with a tenderness she didn't think he possessed. And she wasn't fighting him, but God knew she wanted to. She stirred as his fingers began to pull back the hem of her shirt.

"Lisa," he emitted her name in a rush of exhaled air. "I'm not going to tell you anything, except you're beautiful."

She stared at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means that what happened to you wasn't because you were weak. It was just life being a bitch. And you've gotta let go of that."

Again, she was left without a response. Jackson took her silence to be acceptance and pulled her shirt down to expose her to the chilled air of the basement. Her bra slipped off. She hadn't realized that someone, maybe Jackson, had unhooked it. He ran his fingers over her breasts, his eyes locked on hers during his caresses.

"What are you doing?" she whispered. Goosebumps had erupted all over her body. She was too cold to move, too cold to push Jackson away. And in a way, she didn't want to. She was tired. She wanted to fall asleep, possibly to the rhythm of the throbbing storm, or to the soft, slow heartbeat of a man lying next to her. It had been so long since she'd even been touched.

He didn't answer her. "Just say the word," he replied. She knew what he meant. She arranged her lips in the shape of the word 'stop,' but she couldn't form sound. She wasn't fighting him and it terrified her.

Her shirt had disappeared, and so had his. Everything was moving so quickly she barely had time to process it. She lifted her fingers, more out of curiosity than anything else, to his bare chest, running her nails over a small, round scar near his navel. She looked up at him.

"Bullet. Cured by good scotch and bed rest."

Jackson lowered his lips to the ridge on her chest. He ran his tongue along the crest, eliciting a moan from Lisa. She cut it off halfway through, and sounded strangled. He smiled at her and kissed her gently, just once.

She was still pinned to the floor. Without requiring her to move, he removed both her skirt and his pants. Her stockings were a shredded mess and slipped off easily. Lisa, her breath shaking and her hands trembling, lifted her index finger to Jackson's boxers, where a large protrusion evidenced his arousal. She ran the pad of her finger along the shaft and watched as his body tensed.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she replied, equally hushed. "I guess just…curiosity."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"You're going to kill me."

He smirked at her. "Then we'd better enjoy this."

Jackson slipped her panties from her flattened hips and Lisa avoided looking down. She kept her eyes on him as he removed his own underwear. She closed her eyes as he lowered himself. Her discomfort throughout the whole ordeal was now intensified and she suddenly felt out of control .This wasn't happening. Why was she allowing this to happen, and with him? A murderer. A man who had lied to her throughout their whole relationship, or façade, or whatever the hell it was.

Jackson's fingers touched her eyelids, and then moved to brush her hair from her face. She felt his fingertips on her breasts and then a wetness between her thighs.

She climaxed after a few minutes, surprised at herself because she'd never imagined it would be that way, not with a man she hated and who hated her. And then as she opened her eyes he was suddenly inside her, pushing, probing, pressing against her. She screamed and he wrapped his fingers around her arms, pushing her gently back to the floor.

"Lisa," he managed as he pushed slowly into and back out and into her again. "Please. Tell me something."

"What?"

"That you want this."

She looked up at him and drew her nails across his lower back. His blue eyes locked onto hers and she remembered him. He was the same person she'd known for a while.

"I want this."


End file.
